


last rites

by supinetothestars



Series: last night's clothes and tomorrow's dreams 'verse [2]
Category: Daredevil (Comics), Daredevil (TV), Marvel, Marvel (Comics), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst, Character Study, Depression, Gen, Post-Season/Series 03
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-27
Updated: 2019-10-27
Packaged: 2021-01-04 15:14:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 662
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21199748
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/supinetothestars/pseuds/supinetothestars
Summary: Daredevil was dangerous. He was frightening. There was a danger in the way he moved, how he looked, the scars that ran down his jawline and the curvature of his shoulders- always tensed, waiting for a blow but never flinching away.Matthew Murdock, Attorney at Law was a man with a different sort of danger. The attorney laughed at the bad jokes his friends made and he worked half his cases pro bono and he would probably help you move into your apartment if he wasn’t blind as a bat with a severe case diabetic retinopathy. He volunteered at his church on weekends and once he drained Foggy’s entire cup of burning hot coffee before realizing it wasn’t the glass of water he’d meant to pick up.Matt was all of these things and none of these things. Matt didn’t always have the energy to get out of bed in the morning. Matt couldn’t remember anything that happened for a solid six months between the ages of twelve and thirteen. When asked where he lived as a child before St. Agnes, Matt rattled off a series of cross streets because he hadn’t stayed anywhere long enough for the memory to stick.





	last rites

Daredevil was dangerous. He was frightening. There was a danger in the way he moved, how he looked, the scars that ran down his jawline and the curvature of his shoulders- always tensed, waiting for a blow but never flinching away.

It was how Daredevil moved. He limped, or held his hand to his chest when he’d cracked a rib, and you could see the damage in his stuttered movements and syncopated breaths. There was pain visible in his movements- the expectation of it, the presence of it. When you lifted a hand, he ducked away. When you stepped towards him, he stepped towards you. He squared his shoulders and flared his nostrils and let his hands slip into fists. 

There was something about the way he smelled that gave the impression of violence. It was the smell of the dried blood that blemished his suit, tinting the air with the copper-scented memory of past fights gone wrong. 

He moved like a predator. He moved like a bloodhound. Each step was careful. Each movement was calculated. You could see his mission, in the way he moved and the click of his heel against the pavement, in the way his chin tilted up towards the sky as he stepped forward off of a building to plunge into the street below. When he launched himself into a fight, he fought like a beast at bay. He fought like a man whose heart pumped dark red fury. The soundtrack to his anger was the snapping of bones- other men’s, or his own; he hardly seemed to notice the difference.

He grunted while he fought, and his voice sounded like car tires on gravel. When he spoke, it was with the quality of a man performing his own last rites.

Matthew Murdock, Attorney at Law was a man with a different sort of danger. The attorney laughed at the bad jokes his friends made and he worked half his cases pro bono and he would probably help you move into your apartment if he wasn’t blind as a bat with a severe case diabetic retinopathy. He volunteered at his church on weekends. He had a knack for talking with scared clients, and once he drained Foggy’s entire cup of burning hot coffee before realizing it wasn’t the glass of water he’d meant to pick up.

Murdock was a different creature in the courtroom. Standing before the wooden juror’s booth, he became a man with a purpose. He was an unstoppable force, and the jury was the immovable object, but damn if he wouldn’t move it anyway. He’d move it to tears with a few carefully placed eloquencies, with a calculated dip in the tone of his voice, with the echo of his voice in the hallowed courtroom halls. He stood and wielded the power of his country’s laws as a blunt weapon.

Matt was all of these things and none of these things. Matt didn’t always have the energy to get out of bed in the morning. Matt once cut himself shaving and then woke up screaming in the middle of the night because he’d smelled the blood and thought someone was dying. Matt flinched when he heard dog whistles. Matt couldn’t remember anything that happened for a solid six months between the ages of twelve and thirteen. When asked where he lived as a child before St. Agnes, Matt rattled off a series of cross streets because he hadn’t stayed anywhere long enough for the memory to stick. 

Matt had been broken by everyone he’d ever loved, and he’d loved them anyway.

He went out fighting because without the pain and the adrenaline and the fear of being Daredevil, he couldn’t tell if he was alive or not.

He loved Elektra because he only felt alive when he was with her.

Matt was a lost man, and his faith in God was the compass that guided him. But that faith had died with Father Lantom.

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> kudos please i crave recognition


End file.
